But knowing doesn't prepare you.
Nothing can prepare you.
"Please," I whisper. "Please, don't."
"Don't beg. It's pathetic." He stands, starts unbuckling his belt. "Besides, it's not like this is your first time. You used to let me do whatever I wanted, remember? When you needed a fix bad enough."
"I'm not that person anymore."
"We'll see."
He grabs me by the hair and drags me toward the mattress in the corner.
I fight—I try to fight—but my body is broken, my hands still bound, my strength gone.
I think about Garrett.
About the fire he survived, the sister he saved.
About the way he looks at me like I'm something precious, something worth protecting.
I think about the baby.
The tiny life inside me, depending on me to keep it safe.
I think about all the things I still want to do.
Watch my child take its first steps.
Grow old with my husband.
Make up for all the years I lost to addiction.
I can survive this. I have to survive this.
So, I go somewhere else in my mind.
I float up and away, to a place where the pain can't reach me.
I think about the nursery Tildie's been planning—sage green walls and a white crib and soft blankets.
I think about Garrett's hand on my stomach, feeling the baby kick.
I think about NA meetings and bad coffee and the words I've said a dozen times: My name is Vanna, and I'm an addict.
I am an addict, but I am so much more than that.
And when this is over—when Virgil has taken what he wants and left me broken on this filthy mattress—I will still be here.
I will still be fighting.
I will still be alive.
That's the only victory that matters.
Time loses meaning.
I don't know how long I lie there after he's done.
